Bed
by Secret Agent Codename Bob
Summary: "Almost predictably, a few days after agreeing to mentor Ed, the heating breaks." A collection of one-shots all based upon some of Ed's favourite riddles. Part of the 'What Am I' series. Nygmobblepot. Post-Season Two.


~ I was formed long ago, yet made today ~

~ I am employed while others sleep ~

~ What am I? ~

Fate had, according to Ed, had a hand in the Penguin and Edward Nygma's meeting. It seemed too perfect, too timely for the both of them: Oswald's life had been saved, perhaps by mere hours, and Ed had received the direction and guidance he so desperately desired. Although Oswald is always wary of accepting some grand design behind their lives - predestination had always reminded him too much of those marionettes dangling on thin, jangling wires which had scared him senseless as a child - even he has to admit there did seem to be something special about their 'chance' meeting.

It could have just been a happy happenstance. Yet, if Ed is right, if fate did truly exist then it did not seem content to let them be. And it had a wicked sense of humour.

Almost predictably, a few days after agreeing to mentor Ed, the heating breaks.

Maybe Oswald is cursed.

It is late, about 11 o'clock and it is freezing. As in, it is _freezing_. Oswald shivers for what feels like the hundredth time and sorely wishes his title carried with it said animal's insulation. Right then, in this treacherous cold, he would kill for feathers. Ruefully he huddles further beneath the quilted covers, clutching his spindly fingers to his chest in a desperate attempt to instill some of that elusive warmth back in them.

He fails.

Oswald is sure he can wait it out. Gotham river had been colder he reminds himself. _Not that much colder_ , some traitorous, dissenting voice in his head whispers.

No. He had survived Fish Mooney, double dealing Falcone and Maroni, the death of his mother - he could survive a spat of icy weather.

Another full minute passes. Oswald shivers again.

 _Right, screw this_. Oswald huffs out an aggravated breath, grateful that beneath the covers he is spared from the sight of it turning to mist. This isn't going to work. He will wake Ed up and demand further clothing, blankets, hot water bottles, _anything_ warmer than these pathetic excuses for pyjamas.

He counts to ten and, to hell with it, throws off the duvet. Better to brace the chilling air rather than ease into it. Oswald awkwardly lurches upward into a sitting position, shivering yet determined and-

"Shit! Ed, what are you _doing_?"

Edward Nygma, damn the man, is standing, no, perching just at the edge of the bed. The ever pulsing green light offsets his face ghoulishly. His eyes are flashing.

"Mr Penguin." He looks far too pleased with himself, grin wide and smug. It takes a moment for Oswald to realise why. Then it clicks; Ed stands in front of him dressed in a thin shirt and flimsy looking trousers and _does not look in the slightest bit cold._

The bastard.

There are a thousand things Oswald wants to say, a thousand, thousand furious words and rebukes and _why can't you just be a normal roommate and not watch me sleeping like some kind of stalker_ but the words all die on his lips because-

Because all of a sudden Edward Bloody Nygma is climbing into bed.

With him.

"Ed?!" The word sounds strangled and tight and Oswald hates it. He puts it down to the cold. "What are you doing?"

Ed pauses for a moment, eyes catching Oswald's. He blinks. "I'm getting into bed."

 _You smart-arse, I have killed more people than I can remember and you dare to try and sass me you absolute-_

Oswald pulls the blankets closer around his shivering form. "Yes, I can _see_ that. What I want to know is _why."_

"You're cold." Ed says it like those two words are a perfectly reasonable explanation for what is happening. Well, Mister Nygma, they aren't.

Oswald tries awkwardly to shuffle away from the man but finds the end of the mattress far too quickly. _Look how far the Penguin has fallen_. He reels through curses and expletives and every obscene word which would have made his mother faint and none of them close to expressing the cocktail of boiling anger and, surprisingly, panic in his chest.

"That doesn't explain why you're getting into bed with me, _friend_." The glare he shoots the taller man is pure poison.

Oswald is sure he sees Ed roll his eyes but the blinking green light makes it hard to be sure. Regardless, it still fills his mouth with bile. "I'm not about to let my newfound mentor die from hypothermia right after I just saved your life. It would be a bit of a disappointing end to our relationship, don't you think? Anticlimactic."

Oswald is sure his mouth would be hanging open if his teeth weren't chattering together so badly.

"So you think the answer is to _climb into bed with me_?"

Ed removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table. Such a simple gesture yet Oswald feels something final sink in his chest because, yep, it looks like this is happening.

"Did you know that penguin's conserve heat energy by huddling together-"

"Yes Ed, I do have a grasp on third grade biology."

The taller man looks up and locks eyes with Oswald, his expression measured and expectant, looking for all the world as if Oswald is being the unreasonable one. They hold that stare for a long time and it only breaks because Oswald shivers. Ugh. _Fine._

"Fine. Whatever." Oswald takes a moment to close his eyes and evaluate just what his life has come to. "I'm cold and tired and injured and I really, really want to go to sleep. Let's just get on with this." He pauses. Then, just for good measure, "Try anything and I will kill you."

Oswald turns away from Ed so he doesn't have to see his reaction and bunkers down, as much distance between them as possible.

"Of course not." Turns out, it doesn't matter he can't see Ed's face. The smugness in his voice is obvious.

Oswald grits his teeth. Maybe he should have taken his chances in that forest after all.

There is a shuffling of sheets. Then nothing. The two aren't touching and the space between them feels energised, as if electrified. Several long moments drudge by. The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

"Well, there isn't much point of just lying here if we don't conserve body heat."

"No," replies Oswald tightly, "I suppose not."

There's a little more shuffling, as if Ed has turned onto his side.

"May I touch you?"

Ed's voice is much closer than Oswald expects it to be; soft, low. Like velvet. Four words, four very simple words spoken in the most gentle, unassuming tone yet they make him ache because when was the last time someone asked him that, truly wanted that?

Oswald doesn't verbally answer. He can't. After a few seconds he gives a short, jerky nod not knowing whether Ed will even be able to see it.

He does.

The moment Ed touches him Oswald feels something inside give. Ed moves slowly, carefully as if Oswald is precious glass, delicate china that could shatter with the slightest pressure. It both infuriates Oswald and makes him want to sob because these actions - legs gently pressing against his, firm back solid behind his own - they declare Oswald breakable. Yet they also declare him precious.

There's a gentle pressure on his shoulder, the top of his forearm. A question. Asking for permission.

"It's fine." Oswald is amazed to find his voice holding steady.

Ed slides his hand down the length of his arm, fingers finally coming to rest curled around Oswald's wrist.

He feels rather than hears Ed let out a breath as soon as he finishes positioning himself. A long line of unbroken contact runs from Oswald's shoulder blades to his calves. Ed's head rests close - he can feel every short outtake of breath tickle the hairs on his neck. It's not entirely comfortable; Oswald is sharp bones jutting out at odd angles and Ed's limbs are long and jagged. Yet, somehow, they fit.

 _What was the point of this again? Oh yes. Warmth._ Oswald releases a long hiss of breath and forces himself to relax, wills his muscles to loosen and rest against the source of heat behind him.

Oswald usually runs cold; he always has done since he was a child. Something about his cells not producing enough blood, meaning his heart beat slower than average. They'd never had to money for a proper diagnosis. His mother would kiss his pale skin, too white and chill to the touch to be normal and tell him it was because of the blue blood in his veins.

 _You do know you're royalty, don't you little Oswald? And blue is such a cold colour, so no wonder your skin is cooler than the other boys. This doesn't make you abnormal: it makes you exceptional. You are a_ _ **King**_ _._

Every time he has touched Ed however, he has always noticed that the man runs hot. Almost too hot, like a computer left on too long and overheating. He likes to theorise that Ed's mind is so active, so brilliant in its capacity and speed that the rest of his body simply cannot keep up with its demands.

Oswald is incredibly grateful for that brain right at that moment.

Slowly, as if Ed is a radiator which is thawing every inch of his skin, systemically working outwards, Oswald begins to feel himself relax. His eyelids flutter closed as he forces himself to forget about what is happening, about just how vulnerable Ed is making him feel. His breathing slows but the cold still wraps around him, cutting in just enough to prevent him from drifting off. Still, absurdly, he finds himself relaxing.

Minutes go past. Maybe hours. Time seems to lose itself in each breath, each rise and fall of the chest behind him, stretching out in a dead waste of time. Quiet. Calm.

One moment everything is still and unbroken and then, the next Ed is there, moving whiplash quick, head buried in Oswald's hair and _inhaling_ like he's breathing clean air for the first time in years. Oswald is so startled by the sudden movement, the violence of it, that it takes him a moment before he even registers what has happened.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Ed releases the breath, hot against his neck. And oh, there's the tiniest sound, the quietist exclamation that he makes on the exhale, caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan. It sounds as if Oswald's scent alone has broken him on the inside, torn him open with jagged teeth and wrought out that noise from his guts.

It sets Oswald on _fire_.

He has to bite his lip to stop an answering sound tearing free from him because, _fuck_ , that noise just stroked a part of Oswald he had thought long dead and buried. Visceral. Carnivorous. Oswald suddenly _wants_.

Every point of contact now is so much more pronounced and he feels certain that if Ed does that again he's going to shudder, going to spasm, going to roll over and draw out that noise out again with his tongue and teeth if he has to.

Oswald's eyelids clench closed as he focuses every ounce of his will power on keeping himself from doing something stupid. He can taste blood in his mouth. He can't spare enough attention to care because Ed is _still there_ , mouth and nose so deep in his hair that he half wonders if Ed wants to drown in him.

For the first time in his life he realises why someone would want to.

And, just as suddenly as Ed is there, he isn't. He can still feel him pressed against his body, the warmth consistent but without the searing intensity. It is as if nothing had ever happened, as if Oswald had imagined it all. The sheer speed of the exchange leaves him feeling winded.

Oswald knows Ed wants him. It was obvious, written plain and bold in every line of his body, his face, his smile whenever Oswald spoke to him. Since waking up Ed had been so eager for approval, so earnest for friendship. He looked at Oswald as if he held the answer to every enigma, every mystery of the universe.

Sometimes, at night or when Ed thought he couldn't see him staring, there would be something darker in those eyes. Something hungry and predatory and dangerous - undiluted desire blazing out with a ferocious intensity all focused on little, odd, awkward Oswald.

He still isn't sure whether Ed truly wants _him_ , Oswald Cobblepot, or what he, the Penguin, can give him. Part of him wonders whether it even matters because the way Ed looks at him, the way his eyes threaten to swallow him whole after they kill together, the way Ed just breathed in his scent like it was the last thing he would ever do - it is addicting. Intoxicating. To be wanted.

The Penguin had been belittled, begrudgingly tolerated and finally feared yet he has always been sure that no one ever truly wanted him. It had spawned his crippling paranoia which had almost been his downfall. He knows, after his mother, he will never be able to have full confidence in anyone yet necessity has forced him to at least partially trust the man lying behind him. If anyone can come close to that point of trust it is Edward Nygma.

Part of him wonders if... _that_ had just happened at all. Yet, no; Ed's fingers spasm lightly against his wrist like an aftershock. Oswald cannot suppress a slight smirk. Oh yes, Ed wants him. The only problem lay in the fact that Oswald might start wanting him too.

Heat slowly settles and Oswald releases his now bloodied lip. Sleep is beckoning and, if only for tonight, he can permit himself to trust Ed.

The last thing he registers before sleep drags him under is the odd positioning of Ed's fingers, coiled around his wrist. Surely it would be easier if they were interlocked with his own, far more comfortable for Ed? That's when Oswald realises, just as darkness consumes him:

Ed has been taking his pulse.

?

Something is wrong.

That is the first thought which slips into Oswald's mind as consciousness ebbs back to him.

He feels…warm. Peaceful. Rested.

Why is that wrong?

It takes him a moment to remember.

 _Nightmares_. For the first time since his mother's death he'd slept through the night without seeing her face pale and withered, without watching for the thousandth time as the light drained away in her eyes like sewage into a gutter.

It was as if during the night, something twisted and painful had uncurled in his chest. He feels that strange light-headedness you normally get after sobbing, like every breath is both heavy and feather-light at the same time. It is disorientating.

Blinking, the world begins to blearily emerge around him. First the sound of traffic and city bustle, next the smell of dust and disinfectant, then the feeling of-

Ah.

Ed.

He'd forgotten about that.

The man is completely encased around him, head nestled in the crook of Oswald's neck, arms cradling the man to his chest. He is breathing slowly, deeply, and with each exhale a stray piece of Oswald's hair flutters in the breath.

Oswald closes his eyes, all at once painfully aware of what happened last night, what Ed did, what he felt. Oswald swallows. Was it a dream? Part of him hopes it was. What terrifies him is that another significant part of him hopes it wasn't.

In a slow exhale Oswald once again forces himself to relax. This morning is not for those kind of thoughts. Nothing quite feels real in the sun-spotted room, a delicate stillness resting on the apartment like a blanket. Oswald finds it surprisingly easy to pretend it is all a dream, to forget about being the Penguin, about his mother, about Galavan. Oswald permits himself this brief uncharacteristic gentleness because while the shards that his mother's death left in him are still there, the way he's being held seems to let them lie in a position where they are no longer piercing him.

Oswald lets what he is and is not supposed to do slip away and, instead, simply allows himself to _be_.

It would be perfect if not for the ache in his right leg.

Fish really would haunt him forever. Oswald flexes his toes and feels that familiar twinge creep through his wearied muscles. Instantly, the spell seems broken, dark a fog descending over the stillness. His injury; forever the reminder of why he must press on without a second of respite. He is the Penguin. To stop moving forwards would be annihilation.

 _For men like you and I, caring will always be our most crippling weakness._

Oswald reminds himself that Ed was taking his pulse, reminds himself that this is still a power play, still a game between the two of them. He _cannot_ let there be more.

Still, when he makes the decision to break the silence Oswald can't shrug the inexplicable, biting sting of sadness.

"Ed?" Oswald whispers, in much the same tone he used to use in church.

Nothing. Just his luck that Ed would be a heavy sleeper.

"Ed?"

The other's fingers twitch against Oswald's wrist but there is no other response.

"Ed," he hisses, a little louder, impatience hot and sticky in his stomach.

Very low in his throat Ed groans and Oswald has a moment to celebrate the response. Then he that elation and relief crumbles to regret because Ed, still caught in sleep, rolls up into him.

 _Well, damn._

Oswald grits his teeth at the feeling of contact, hips on hips, the briefest bite of skin on skin, desperately fighting thoughts which he really can't deal with right now. Not with Ed. Not with anyone.

"Good morning." Ed's voice is quiet and rough with sleep; caught just before that all-powerful brain kicks in, like a picture capturing the moment just before a natural disaster devastates a village. He is entirely unaware of the shocking power he holds in that moment.

It makes Oswald ache.

He takes a moment to inhale a few breaths, until he can be sure that his voice will sound normal.

"Likewise."

Ed hums contentedly into the back of his neck and Oswald closes his eyes, grounds himself on the feel of Ed's rising chest behind him. He remembers that Ed is taking his pulse and focuses on forcibly slowing it.

"Huh. Eight thirty. I should probably get up now."

Time stretches on lazily and despite his words Ed seems in no hurry to move. It feels as if he's waiting for Oswald to say something. _Do not let there be more._ Oswald keeps his mouth obstinately sealed shut.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity Ed starts to shift behind him, his hand begins to lift from Oswald's wrist and before he can stop himself-

"Stay." It was meant to be a command, the kind that invites no questions and only mute obedience but sleep has softened Oswald's voice. It doesn't sound like an order.

It sounds like a plea.

Ed freezes and Oswald can practically hear his mind snap into focus, startling awake and thinking, analysing, deciding.

"If you want."

And with that Ed rests back against Oswald, a just barely audible hum of contentment low in his chest as their limbs slip back into place against one another. Oswald ignores how right it feels.

"I hope you realise that I've never been late to work in my life."

Oswald scoffs. "Why does that not surprise me."

"Shut up." Oswald can hear the grin in Ed's voice.

"Make me." Even as the words leave Oswald's smirking lips he knows he's getting too comfortable. Too close to something else.

Any illusion of peace shrivels and dies as the undeniable urge to flee rears up within him to replace it, sudden panic constricting in his chest. He needs to leave, run, get out _now_ because Ed is like quicksand and he is trapped and sinking and drowning in this man and how is he meant to resist-

"I've never shared a bed before." Ed's voice cuts through the sudden maelstrom of fear. Oswald feels dizzy. What the hell is Ed doing to him? It feels as if he's been drugged and knowing Ed, that is not entirely removed from the realm of possibility.

"Oh?"

"I didn't expect it to be this comfortable."

Oswald frowns, forcing himself to concentrate. "Didn't you say you had a girlfriend...Kristen?"

"Miss Kringle." Ed's words come sharp and quick; they lodge in Oswald's stomach like shards of ice. "And, yes, we did had intercourse, but then I killed her so we didn't get to actually spend the night togeth-"

"Woah, _woah_. Ed that- that is way too much."

A pause.

"Sorry."

Oswald curses internally because the following awkwardness is so thick he is sure he could choke on it.

"Normally it isn't."

"What?"

"Sharing a bed. It isn't normally this comfortable."

Ed pauses for a moment. "So, you do this a lot then?" His voice sounds slightly strange. Pinched.

"What, no-no." Oswald can feel his cheeks starting to redden, appalled by the turn of conversation. Not for the first time he is overwhelming grateful for the fact that Ed cannot see his face. He hadn't planned to start lamenting his truly depressing love life, specifically its rather embarrassingly limited and brief nature. How did this even happen?

Oh, yes, you let Ed get into bed with you.

"I just mean, I often had to share beds with my mother when I was younger. Times were hard and, and we needed to save heat. Same as last night I suppose." Oswald stops for a moment, steeling himself against the memories. "We were never quite the right shape or size for each other so it was never very comfortable."

Ed is silent for a while, finger running across the length of Oswald's arm. "I suppose we fit then."

Ed traces circles on his arm. Oswald lets him. He doesn't think too hard about it, if only for his own sanity.

"When is the boiler fixed?"

"Some time this evening."

"Huh."

"Although, it might not reach us for a while. We are the top floor."

Oswald licks his lips. They are sore and his tongue tastes the tang of iron. "Well, worst comes to worst we will just do this again."

"I suppose we will have to."

They lie together for another minute, breathing aligned in perfect synchrony. Oswald tries to tell himself he isn't treasuring this, isn't willing time to slow and spread so that this can last longer. He almost believes himself.

Then, finally Ed withdraws, sitting up in the bed. Immediately Oswald feels bereft of heat, a cold expanse pressing into his exposed skin where Ed had just been nuzzled. He bites down on another plea for Ed to stay, swallows the words back like a stiff drink because even after everything he will not let himself sink that low. _Remember he was taking your pulse._ Oswald holds himself in the same position, limbs rigid, refusing to turn around and look at the man fate has tied him to.

"I should probably leave, shouldn't I?" Ed's voice is quiet, dreamlike, as if he isn't really awake at all.

Oswald doesn't say anything. It feels like the moment before a storm breaks, the air thrumming with anticipation of...something.

He realises only a second too late what that something is about to become.

Just like the night before Ed is still, unmoving and then, all at once sudden action. In one long, deft movement he runs his long pianist fingers through Oswald's hair, fingerprints harsh against his scalp as if he wants to imprint their pattern onto his skin. Oswald's eyes roll back and it takes every ounce of willpower left within him not to moan. It only lasts a few seconds; the brevity of it, once again infuriatingly stirring two opposing emotions within him - overwhelming relief and bitter disappointment. Oswald knows exactly what it would have become if Ed kept going.

He wants to sob.

"Get some rest, Mr Penguin. Wrap up warm."

Oswald isn't sure when Ed leaves. His eyes remain closed, lips sealed shut until he hears the click of the latch. Only then does he allow himself to breathe.

He tries to get back to sleep. Honestly, he does. But everything inside him is frantic, buzzing and whirring and tense and aching. He releases a groan, deep and throbbing, the release that has been building in him since Ed buried his face in his hair. He feels flayed open inside, tender and butchered by a mere caress.

 _How could Ed take him apart with a single touch the way a bullet had so devastated his torso? And with such devastating ease..._

Then, out of the whirl of confusion and sensation, a thought strikes Oswald. How could he know if the boiler was broken? He has no way of being sure if the fact, save risking the outside to inspect it himself - all he has is Ed's word and the freezing flat.

Just how easily could Ed have lied? How insultingly quickly had Oswald simply accepted Ed's word, just because he had no other choice?

Ice shrouds his heart, like gathering storm clouds.

No. Ed would not be so bold, surely? It couldn't be all some mad sort of experiment: tell a bare-faced lie to the Penguin, one of the most dangerous men in Gotham just to...what? Lie next to him? Breathe him in? Take his pulse?

Oswald's stomach pools with a strange warmth; equal in both want and dread. Had Ed risked his life just to get Oswald into bed with him, and even then in the most unorthodox sense of that statement? The thought is strangely amusing because, honestly, he wouldn't put it past the man.

If it had been an experiment then Oswald had clearly delivered him with ample data to analyse. He had retreated away from Ed, not once made a move to touch him, not made any audible reaction to Ed's actions. But he had also allowed small violation after violation, begged him to stay, let himself be pulled in by Edward Nygma.

Maybe Ed would have a better time deciphering quite what it all meant. Or even, what it meant Oswald wanted. He surely didn't have a clue.

He lies in bed for fifteen minutes, trying to cling on to the fast fading tendrils of unconsciousness, a blessed escape. Then he gives up.

The space behind him is too hollow and cold to sleep.

~Bed~


End file.
